


I'm A Creep

by Tortellini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brother Feels, Brotherhood, Brotherly Bonding, Brothers, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Gen, Heavy Angst, Holmes Brothers, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Angst, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Angst, Teen Mycroft, Teen Sherlock, Teenagers, Underage Drug Use, Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11678943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tortellini/pseuds/Tortellini
Summary: (Teenlock) Mycroft goes to visit his little brother. In the midst of dirty windows and sweaty, sheetless beds--there are drugs. And maybe, if either of them could actually put an effort into each other's lives, things would get better.Oneshot





	I'm A Creep

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["Creep"](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/312405) by Radiohead. 



> When you were here before

A young man with slick brown hair walks into an apartment--a dorm. It's poor and black, unexpressive, and dirty. He looks at it in obvious distaste. But even more than that, he's looking for something. Or rather, someone. 

> ...couldn't look you in the eye...

Once inside, his eyes land on a rickety unmade bed. It's stripped of its sheets, leaving nothing to cover the mattress. Pn it lies a younger man: skinny, with coal black curls. He's wearing one of those white muscle shirts that are supposed to look good, but you can see his ribs through it. His bony arms are so...well, so bony, and colorless, that they look like they could snap. The older man in the doorway looks impatient, and very much out-of-place, in all this mess. He's dressed in a suit (he had just come from work, it would seem) and a posh umbrella. The younger man meanwhile doesn't catch his eye. Rather, he avoids it. 

If you look closely, the inside of his arm is riddled with the marks of a needle. 

> ...you're just like an angel

Admittedly, the older man does look rather fed up. The younger, it seems, has many conflicting emotions: regret, bitterness, love and hate, sorrow, disgust... Though how many are brought on by the longing (another strong emotion) for the absence of his drug, he doesn't know. Missing. Confiscated. 

"Sherlock," the older man finally tries. At least now we get a name. He sounds very worn out, though he's probably only in his late twenties; Sherlock is meanwhile in his teens. "Please, be reasonable--"

"Reasonable?" Sherlock rolls over on his back, knees bent, a mean hardened smirk making his lips tight. "Mycroft, look at me! I'm too far gone. You should just give up already."

"Sherlock."

"No..." He's off on one of his rants now, Mycroft knows this. He's going to say something and Mycroft braces himself, but once again, he's surprised. Sherlock's voice is hazy. "Mycroft...the good one...the one with the job, the money...the angel with the stiff upper lip." He chuckles darkly, weakly, staring up at the disgusting ceiling. "The one Mummy loves."

> your skin makes me cry.

For this right here, Sherlock hates his brother. It's all true too. Both of them had been 'gifted with intelligence' as someone had once called it (or 'freaks', as others said). But while Mycroft used his smarts to get a good job, earn money, and be dreadfully boring, Sherlock meanwhile got into trouble. And got high. 

The perfect son. And then the freak. 

> You float like a feather...
> 
> in a beautiful world

Mycroft leaves, but not without looking at his brother sadly--or pityingly? Sherlock doesn't care. Mycroft is too protective of him anyway, and he despises it.

He sits up on the bed and moves the curtain to watch his brother walk across the street.

His big brother with his friends--though surely not real friends, because they both knew caring is not an advantage--and his diet and his job. With his suits and his comb and his little black umbrella. 

Mycroft crosses the street. His face is hard as he hails a cab. 

And he doesn't look back once. 

> Wish I was special...
> 
> You're so fucking special...

Not just Mycroft. Everyone. He hates everyone, you name it. People are stupid and so he hates them. Mycroft wasn't...isn't...wasn't stupid, but he wastes his brain for king and country. Sherlock needs more. 

More action. More life. More drugs.

> But I'm a creep! I'm a weirdo!
> 
> What the hell am I doing here...? 

Suicide has never occurred to him before. I mean it has--just as everything else has--and he has thought of actually doing it before. But now, now he wonders if it'd be less...boring...to be dead, than to be alive. Alive and trapped. 

> I don't belong here. 

...and he doesn't. Despite his attitude, his ego...he doesn't belong here. 


End file.
